28. Chapter 28
Chapter 28
Matt
“M om, Dad, I’m home,” I yelled as I opened the side door. I let out a grunt as I hoisted the heavy tote of Christmas décor up from the garage floor and carried it inside. Shelby followed behind me dragging the storage bag holding the Christmas tree.
“Matt? What are you doing?” Mom looked up from the vegetables she was chopping long enough to see the tote in my arms. She rested the knife on the cutting board and wiped her hands on a dish towel.
“I thought we could help with the Christmas decorations today.” I dropped the tote to the floor. I wrapped my mom in a bear hug. Over the summer I had been here almost every day like I was trying to make up for all the time I had missed over the years of living over five hours away from home, but my visits had decreased to weekly and then every other week. Mom had teased me about it only to follow up by telling me she was glad I had started to rediscover a place for myself in Mountain View that didn’t involve hanging out with my parents all the time.
“Ask him why today, Mom,” Shelby urged as she dropped the tree next to the tote.
Mom squinted her eyes at the calendar on the refrigerator. “Isn’t today Halloween? Matt, we can wait until this weekend. Invite your sisters and their families. We haven’t had a decorating party in years.” Her eyes widened as she spoke, sparkling as she worked through a plan in her mind.
“Ask him what his plans are tomorrow,” Shelby prompted again.
I shot her a look to not go there. She had still been picking at me for letting Oliver meet Riley first. The teasing had gotten worse once Oliver filled her in on the details of our trip to the apple festival – the details that didn’t involve him or Emery. I tried to get her to agree to the impromptu decorating party tonight without any details of why it needed to be tonight.
I didn’t want to tell her how I had been thinking about our childhood Christmas traditions for the past week, how happy I was to participate in them all this week. My mind drifted to having Riley there with me, to the pictures she had sent while helping Emery decorate their house for fall. Would she be that goofy helping me with Christmas? I could see her being the type to hang mismatched ornaments on the tree in a carefree manner, not worrying about making it social media worthy. Like everything with her, it would feel like the fun montage in movies filled with pure joy as we worked.
I wanted the tradition with my family, but I wanted to build a tradition with Riley too. I wanted to see how different it would be with her, how it would be ours. She wasn’t ready to be part of my family. I could respect that; give her the space she needed until she was ready. Patience had never been a strength of mine, if I wanted something I wanted it right then, but for her I could be anything. I could redirect my impulses if it meant getting to have her in the end.
My family always started Christmas on November first. Without fail, no matter the day of week, on November 1st Dad would pull out the decorations while us kids helped Mom in the kitchen baking cookies. A Christmas Story would play softly in the background, the sound drowned out by blaring Christmas music. It was pure chaos as we all worked, the four of us kids arguing over which pieces of décor we got to place while hyped up on cookies and hot chocolate with mini marshmallows. Mom never told us where to put anything, just told us whoever grabbed it decided where it went that year. As we grew up the collection of ornaments for the tree grew until the tree was hardly visible under the clutter. It was beautiful and loud.
Every year we ended the night with Dad lifting Mom onto his shoulders so she could place the star at the top of the tree. We would all curl up on the couch and start the movie over. The second time around we would drown it out with our discussion of all the things we would do that Christmas season.
To this day I don’t think I’ve ever watched the movie all the way through.
“Mr. Lovesick goober over here wants to spend tomorrow with his not girlfriend starting their own tradition,” Shelby’s words punched into the nostalgic haze that had filled my mind. The memories crumbled around me the same way they had an hour ago when Shelby told me that they hadn’t had a decorating party since I moved away. Our parents put everything out through the month of November on their own.
Both women stared at me, blinking expectantly. My face and ears blazed.
“Girlfriend?” Mom broke the silence.
“Not girlfriend,” Shelby clarified.
“We’ll have a decorating party on Saturday,” Mom declared. “Tell your sisters.” She turned back to her cutting board. “Matt, bring your not girlfriend.”
I glared at Shelby. She smiled, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and turned to the door. I followed her out, the two of us bringing the remaining totes from the garage. I pulled out the themed bakeware, mixing bowls, and measuring scoops to wash up.
“Remember how you used to play your saxophone for the residents?” Mom asked. She transferred the chopped potatoes and carrots to a sheet pan. It took my brain a moment to catch up to what she was asking. When I was first learning to play the residents at the nursing home where she worked as an activity director loved when I would come by, something that had happened by accident one day after school because I needed to practice. Dad worked as a high school history teacher in Fairview, often not getting home until late in the evening. Mom's hours varied through the year so we would spend time there after school until she was able to leave. I wasn’t any good to start with, but they acted like I was some child prodigy. It had done a lot for my nonexistent self-confidence.
“Mr. B was bringing students by for concerts throughout the year. Did you know that? They keep asking when the kids are coming to visit.”
Mr. B was the teacher whose position I had taken. He was more than just a band teacher for most students. He was a teacher that loved his job, loved the opportunity to help mold the next generation. His classroom was an escape for those that didn’t fit in anywhere else. He welcomed everyone, even the students he never taught.
His were the shoes I had to fill.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I told her.
I should have already thought about that, been making plans for it. Riley kept telling me that I was doing great, that I would find my footing soon. But here we were, a third of the way through the year, and I still felt like I had that first day.
I will never be the teacher that Mr. B was.